This is Hardcore
by Dollyrocker85
Summary: Set after series 3. Gillian Macmanus puts herself into a self induced coma in order to bring down Jim Keats so that her Guv Gene Hunt can finally retire. Not everything goes quite the way that she planned!Sorry, I'm not great at writing summaries!
1. This is Hardcore

**Here's our second effort guys! Hope you enjoy reading it. Love Scully and Jeepster! Of course we own nothing at all, all characters belong to the BBC! Although we'd not mind borrowing Jim Keats from time to time, we'll return him in good condition; promise! xxx**

Gillian took a deep breath and stared up at the stark hospital ceiling, the white light seeming to burn her retinas. "Can't believe you're actually going to go ahead and do this." Amy shook her head as she carefully filled a syringe, tapping out the air bubbles. Gillian smiled at her old friend. "Well, you know? It's not like I'm wanted here, is it, at least not for a while. The Guv told me to stay off the radar, keep my head down...what better than the past? I think I'd be of better use to him there-even if he doesn't know me yet." She tried to sound jovial, but her stomach churned as Amy wiped the back of her hand with a sterile wipe. "This guy that you're going after-he's dangerous, right?" Amy asked. "Of _COURSE_. I'm a copper, Amy, I catch bad guys. Asking me not to do that is like asking you not to treat ill people or mother me to within an inch of my life every God-given minute." Gillian looked at her pointedly, eyebrow raised, but Amy only rolled her eyes and reached for the syringe.

"How does it work, again? I know you told me, but...tell me again?" Gillian asked Amy, raised her eyebrows.

"It's gamma hydroxybutyrate...it'll induce a coma, much the same as the one Sam Tyler slipped into. If we are to believe what he said in his reports, this should get you where you need to be. We'll be monitoring your vitals 24/7, but it's not without its risks; you know that," Amy intoned, looking at her nervously. Gillian knew that look well; as a forensic psychologist newly out of school, she and Amy had become friends at Quantico when Amy traveled to the States for a 10-week course in behavioral science. As a bonus, Amy eventually became a psychiatrist with MI-5; the perfect person to do the perfect job in the perfect, most obscure location. However, Amy was once again going against her best judgement, hence said look. It nearly always occurred right before Gillian was about to do something reckless or illegal to crack open a case.

"I'll be fine, you know me. Always land on my feet! And I've got you here watching my back, haven't I?" Gillian patted the back of Amy's hand. "Come on, for Pete's sake, and do it!" With that, she thrust her hand towards Amy. Dutifully, yet reluctantly, Amy slid the needle into her friend's vein and slowly injected the drug.

Gillian's head rested on something hard...and she slowly became aware of music. Loud, loud music.

_"Sometimes I dream  
where all the other people dance  
sometimes I dream  
Charlotte sometimes  
sometimes I dream  
the sounds all stay the same  
sometimes I'm dreaming  
there are so many different names  
sometimes I dream  
sometimes I dream..."_

She raised her head off of the table and scanned her surroundings. She was in an office; it was dark, dingy and smelled slightly of stale alcohol. She paced around the room, running her fingertips over the walls and the shelving. "It's so real, ha!" Gillian marveled as she took in the big picture. Eventually, her eyes were drawn to the desk calendar; the owner had been tearing off the dates in turn, and it was November 8th, 1984. "It worked! F**k me, Amy, it worked!** BRILLIANT! HA!**" she cried aloud.

With that the door burst open, almost off its hinges. "Who the bloody 'ell are you talking to, you daft mare?" There in the doorway stood a tall middle-aged man with mousy blond hair. He wore a grey suit with the worst pair of snakeskin cowboy boots she'd ever had the misfortune to lay her eyes on-and she'd lived through the 80's the first time. "Who the hell are you?" Gillian pretended not to recognize her own Guv. She squared up to him, hands on hips. "Oh, my God, she's a Yank, that's all we bloody need. Okay, come on, Daisy Duke, get your knickers on; you're nicked!" With that, he spun her around, slapping cuffs around her wrists. "You have **GOT** to be f**king kidding me, are you serious?" she protested, tempted to elbow this jackass in the groin. "Gene Hunt doesn't kid, and watch your mouth!" "Well, hello there, _Geeene_, **SO** nice to meet you," she began, elongating his name for effect. "So, you know, uhh, **WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S HOLY** am I being arrested for?" She looked up at him; her petite figure stood perfectly in his shadow. "This whole bloody place is under arrest, Dolly. We've reason to believe your fearless leader, Brian Simpson, is laundering money through this s*it hole." "Oh, great! Nice. Okay, **LET'S** go downtown. Let's do **JUST** that. This'll be good," Gillian replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

As Gene lead her through the nightclub to the exit, she saw people dressed in the most outlandish costumes being ushered out by police officers. There were goths, New Romantics, and some downright freaks! Quoting one of her favorite 'Family Guy' episodes, she smiled widely, saying, "This place is freakin' **SWEET**."

"**Oi, Michael!** Find the sodding plug and turn this bloody racket off!" Gene bellowed to a younger man, another plain-clothed officer. "Not a fan of The Cure, then, Guv?" Michael, the hapless officer, asked, grinning. He then smiled briefly in Gillian's direction. "If that's the Cure, I 'ate to know what the bloody affliction is!", Gene retorted.


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping through the door of Manchester CID, Gillian could hardly believe her eyes; it was EXACTLY as Tyler had said. Okay, the place seemed to have dragged its sorry arse into the 1980's, but only by a fraction. Sure, there was the odd fax machine and a few primitive-looking computers knocking about, but it still resembled the land that time forgot. She couldn't help but gasp and smile. "Would you stop being so bleedin 'appy?" Gene snapped at her as they approached the front desk. "Stick her in interview room two with Keats, he'll wipe the smile off her face!" Gillian's face dropped. She hadn't expected to be thrown in the deep end so soon. She drew in a breath, holding it for a moment as the realisation set in that she would soon lay eyes on James Keats for the first time. He was her very reason for being here.

She waited patiently in the interview room, still trying to take in her new surroundings. It was just as Sam had said; an amazing imitation of life down to the very last detail. It was at that point that she looked down on herself. She appeared to be wearing the tightest pair of skinny black jeans she had ever seen along with an oversized, grey slash-neck sweater that hung slightly off one of her slender shoulders. Looking down to her feet she noted her cherry red Doc Marten lug boots. She smiled ironically as she thought, _Well, thank Christ. At least I've not lost my impeccable sense of style._

With that, the door opened and a tall, suited man in horn rimmed glasses let himself in to the room. "Hello-DCI Keats," he said, extending a hand. Gillian grasped his hand in a very firm handshake. His face was soft and friendly, if a little prim and proper for her liking. He was not as she had envisioned AT ALL. The file she'd been given by head office had described him as volatile sociopath: _**APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION,**_ it had read. Gillian chuckled inside, a smile spreading across her visage. However, she'd had enough experience in these matters not to be lulled into false sense of security.

Jim took a seat across the interview table from her and set a notebook in front of him. Looking up from the notepad only momentarily, he spoke. "Could you confirm your full name for me, please?"

"Gillian Rose Macmanus."

"Date of Birth?"

"August 27, 1974." As she answered, Jim looked up at her unamusedly. "1974?" **DAMN! I'm here 5 minutes and nearly blow it,** she thought. Before he began to speak, Gillian beat him to it. " 'Fifty-four!" she blurted. "1954...yep, the year Elvis cut his first record...man, that was a good year!" Her intention was to dumb herself down; all it would take would be for him to underestimate her even ONCE and she'd be on the right track to capturing him. "I'm more of a Elvis Costello fan myself, but to each their own," Jim commented, not looking up from his notebook. Gillian squinted her eyes at this digression, guffawing on the inside: _You? An Elvis Costello fan? Wow. Didn't know that was what total sociopaths listened to. Good to know._

"You're not from around these parts, are you, Gillian?" Jim continued, his demeanour professional but friendly. "Wow, you're good." She laughed, raising a flirtatious eyebrow at him, knowing that her accent rang out like a frickin' bell. "Just a hunch." As Jim gave her a cheeky smile, Gillian thought he looked WAY too young to be a DCI. "I came over here a few years ago. I'd grown tired of the glamour of Manhattan." She rolled her eyes theatrically. "You know, the whole industry scene: the bands, the parties, the illegal drugs...decided to just settle down in a nice, quiet Northern textile town and keep a couple of whippets," Gillian answered as she drummed her fingers on the desk in front of her and smiled sweetly at her own BS. Jim chuckled at the quick flippancy with which she answered his query, his eyes seeming to linger on her longer than they should. _She was an odd amalgamation,_ he thought, his eyes taking her in completely. She had a shortish bob cut that was a touch wild, her hair color an almost unnatural shade of red; but it was striking. Her taste in clothing tended towards the wild as well, he noted mentally; but, at the same time, it was surprisingly conservative, not as revealing as others might be.

"How did you come to be working for Brian Simpson? I understand you are a barmaid at his club, 'Romeo and Juliet's'." Jim held his pen absently in his hand and clicked it, awaiting her answer. Gillian was a quick thinker, and also a quick bulls***ter. "If you've not noticed, DCI Keats, there is a _recession _on. No one in this city was clambering to give a resident Yank a job. Brian did, so I took it. Pays the bills." She shrugged, hoping that this tied in with what he already knew about her. Before he could respond, they were interrupted. "DCI Keats, DCI Hunt wishes to inform you that all charges against Miss Macmanus have been dropped." The messenger was Michael, the man Gene had been bossing around earlier at the club. Keats glared at him as if he had just spoiled his fun. "On what grounds, DI Pilkington?" The man in the doorway held up his hands in mock defense, answering, "Lack of evidence, sir." Keats slammed his pen on the desk with a loud bang and uttered something about needing to question her further before he sped out of the room in what appeared to be an almighty strop.

At the front desk, Michael stood with Gillian as she signed for her things, staring at her with amusement as she inspected each object in turn as if she had never seen them before. In the bag were a set of door keys, car keys, and a black purse containing the Romeo and Juliet's staff card which, thankfully, informed her of her own address; lastly, she was appalled to find in her wallet the grand total of ten pounds and fifty seven pence. Smiling at Michael and offering gratitude, Gillian left the building in search of 'home'.

She looked down at the Romeo and Juliet's staff card. It looked relatively new, she thought. I couldn't have been working there long. Checking she had the right address, she slid the key into the lock and stepped into the flat that was to be her home...for now, anyway. The Ritz it was not, but it could have been worse. She wandered the rooms in turn. Her living room was small, almost sparse, but homely. The furniture was a hodgepodge of old and new. Her kitchen seemed tiny compared to the one she had back in 2009, but hey, she wasn't here to cook. Her bedroom was inviting; the bed looked a good size and ever so comfy. Upon looking at it, Gillian realised how unbelievably tired she was. She tugged off her jeans and folded them neatly, placing them in the oak dresser that stood in the corner. She never could bear a mess, hence why she'd never had a roommate back in Manhattan-just thinking about someone else having all their crap everywhere made her tense. Crawling into bed, her mind was a fog; but, despite her unique situation, she started to drift off to sleep.

_"Gill...Gilly...Are you in there?" _Gillian woke with a start to a familiar voice beckoning to her from the living room. Barefoot, she padded towards the source of the sound. _"Your vitals are all stable...like you care, anyway." _Gillian couldn't believe her eyes: there, on the grainy old television screen, was Amy, stood there looking down at her as she lay on the gurney at MI-5 HQ. Her platinum hair was tied up in a bun and her hands were dug deep in the pockets of her white lab coat. Amy looked thoroughly nervous. Gillian sighed at the sight of her friend, suddenly feeling ever so lonely in her new world. "I'm here Amy; keep watchin' me, girl," she whispered, reaching her fingertips out to the screen.


	3. Chapter 3

Gillian arrived at Romeo and Juliet's early the next day, trying several keys on the key chain before striking it lucky and letting herself in. The place seemed dank and dreary when it wasn't filled with its usual exotic patrons. She wandered to the back office, her feet taking her there on autopilot as if they knew their way. She flicked idly through the diary on the desk, coming to November 9th, 1984. And, there in red Biro pen, read the words _Echo and the Bunnymen._ She read it, then read it again. She'd seen posters up baring Ian McCulloch's boyish face as she walked through the club, but she'd paid them no mind. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Gillian looked up to the ceiling, but this time she wasn't speaking to God. "Amy! Echo and the Bunnymen! My subconscious rocks!" She spun on her heels and strode out of the office to begin her shift.

The bar was fully stocked, the till had its float, and the doors were open. Gillian thanked God that she could still pull a good pint; all those summers in college working for pocket money at West End Lounge had finally paid off. The customers flooded in, a sea of eye-liner and backcombed hair. She flinched every time someone lit a cigarette._ God almighty,_ she mused, _...The amount of hairspray in here is next-level._

Gillian was well on her way to serving her 50th Snakebite and Black of the night when she caught someone out of the corner of her eye. For a moment she couldn't believe her eyes; he stuck out like a sore thumb. But, there in the landscape of black was Jim Keats, still in his immaculate grey suit, smoking a cigarette at the end of the bar. Her mouth gaped slightly. "Well, Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot," she said aloud, to no one in particular.

The lights dimmed and the haunting opening riff to 'The Cutter' started; goosebumps littered Gillian's arms. She approached Jim, but before she could say a word, he pointed towards the stage, exclaiming, "**I love this song!**" She just stared at him aghast for a few moments, wondering if he was taking the piss. Jim looked in her direction, a deadpan look on his face. "Yes, Gillian, when I'm not arresting apparently innocent people and interviewing them for apparently no good reason, I like to listen to Echo and the Bunnymen." His voice dripped with sarcasm. He turned to face her, leaning on the bar. "Oooh, adventurous," she replied. "Next thing you'll be telling me will be that you secretly prance around wearing black eyeliner." Gillian leaned on the bar mirroring his stance, their faces almost touching. "Only on the weekends," he quipped, a knowing smile on his lips. "So, Mr. Keats, why are you really here?" Gillian narrowed her eyes, trying to fathom his reasons. "We have genuine concerns about this place, Gillian; I'm here to observe. Believe me, it's better me than Hunt." Jim tilted his head and took a long drag of his cigarette, not once taking his eyes off her. She nodded in understanding. "Can I at least get you a drink, Mr. DCI?" Gillian's eyes glanced into his and she smiled, remembering why she loved this job. "Please-call me Jim, and a nice Pinot Grigio would be great." Jim spoke into her ear, so close she could feel his breath. She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, honey, you're not very good at this, are you? This place won't see a nice Pinot Grigio until 1996! We've got Carling, Woodpecker and Red Stripe! Our patrons have very plebian tastes." Jim, in spite of himself, reached across the bar and placed his hand atop hers. Gillian was startled by this turn of events; she noted his touch was surprisingly cool. "What about you, Gillian, what are your tastes?" he said, looking her in the eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, her mouth suddenly dry. She'd not anticipated this-this was not how she thought this was going to go down. _What was he playing at?,_ she wondered.

"Well! I never saw this one coming! If it isn't Daisy Duke and Buddy Bloody Holly!" **GENE.** Gillian was thankful for his timing. _That was close_, she thought. "Good Lord above, what **IS** this utter s***e?" Gene pointed a gloved hand towards the stage. "It's Echo and the Bunnymen, Gene, I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with their work," Jim replied gamely in Gene's direction. "Yes, Jimbo, and it's exactly the sort of left wing, nancyboy drivel I suspect you listen to in your s***ty Ford Fiesta!" Jim gave an exasperated look to Gillian. "Two pints and two whiskey chasers for myself and young Michael here; may as well start a tab as we mean to go on!" Gene smiled triumphantly, adding, "And Daisy, you can tell that scrotum of a boss of yours that we WILL be making a habit of this! He's not going to be able to go to the loo without me knowing about it." Gillian glanced towards Michael as she went to get their drinks, mouthing the words _OH JOY_ as she went. To this, Michael gave her a knowing smirk.

After the gig had finished the fans filtered out, but Gene and Michael still remained, now joined by a motley crew of co-workers. They'd sunk barrels worth of booze, and if she wasn't mistaken, Gene had given the glad eye to more than one make-up clad bloke that evening. "Not a fan of yours is he," Gillian said to Jim, nodding towards Gene. Jim, now a little worse for wear himself, rested his chin on his hand. "Oh, so you've noticed? Yes, he rather resents me, does DCI Hunt. Truth is, I have been sent to essentially babysit him. There was an incident last year down in London that did not end well and I have been paired with him ever since to keep him in check. "

"What happened in London?" Gillian's eyes flashed, wondering if Jim was drunk enough to give anything away. "Well, as you can see for yourself, Gene evokes a certain loyalty from his team; it's all very admirable, but sometimes this loyalty is misplaced. That's all I can say."

"But what do you mea...", she began, but before she could quiz further it became apparent that Gene had 'Young Michael' pinned against the wall by his lapels. "What did you say, you whining little **SOD?**", Gene spat in Michaels face. "I said, we had no evidence and it was a monumental **WASTE OF POLICE TIME!**" Gillian gasped audibly, finding a new respect for Michael who wasn't all as hapless as she'd originally pegged him for. The man was probably half Gene's size but clearly determined that right was on his side. Then, without warning, Gene cut Michael with an upper cut that promptly split open his lip. Without missing a beat, Gillian was over the bar. "**WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! UH-UH, GUYS! CUT THIS s*** OUT RIGHT NOW!**" In an instant, she had placed herself between Gene and Michael, spreading her arms out and squaring up to Gene. "I think it's time you called it a night, DCI Hunt," she said through her teeth. "I give the orders around 'ere, Daisy, kindly step aside!" Gene bellowed, blowing the smell of beer and cigarettes in her face. But Gillian stood her ground. "Sorry, Gene-it's 3.30 in the morning, and you're on my turf this time. My turf, my rules. We have to **CLOSE.** If you have any objections, I kindly suggest you put them to the local authority, capiche? OUT." Gillian pointed to the door. Her size was nearly half his, but she's stared down far scarier monsters than this. Gene reluctantly ushered the gang out of the bar, a scowl on his face. As Michael went to leave, she noticed that his mouth was bleeding down his chin onto his striped shirt. Holding out an arm to stop him passing, Gillian shouted, "Hang on, sweetie! You can't go home like that, man? No cabs will let you in looking like that. Come with me-we'll get you cleaned up really fast." Michael smiled genuinely at her, grateful for her support.

Putting her arm around him, Gillian led Michael by the hand to the back room. As she did, she caught sight of Jim making his way to the door. She lifted a hand in his direction, mouthing the word _'Bye_. She received no such courtesy in return. To her amazement, Jim looked at her coldly, saying nothing before closing the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Gillian lay in her bed that night wide awake. It was so late that soon the sun would be rising; she could hear the hum of a milk float making its way up the road outside. Once again, she was exhausted but sleep wouldn't come. Only one face kept flashing through her mind: **JIM.** Why would he be so annoyed at her that he wouldn't so much as say goodbye to her? They'd been chatting all night, his body language telling her he found her interesting. _He wasn't THAT big an enigma,_ she thought. Sure, he was self-obsessed and clearly lacked empathy, but he was a man. Well, he certainly looked like one, anyway, and he'd charmed her all evening. However, a thought crept slowly over Gillian as she realised that the real conundrum above all others was _why she cared so much.  
_  
To be sure, her life back in 2010 Manhattan was nothing to write home about. Since she'd fled Manchester a few years ago, the whole 'staying under the radar' BS was not the look. She'd nearly had to confront Keats back then as she'd been the subject of a D&C investigation. She'd been brought in by Head Office to do some profiling work for Gene under the alias of DI Annie Harris when it looked like some higher-ranking coppers were taking backhanders from a prostitution ring. Her job was solely to profile the officers in question so that Gene and Co. could plot their next move. However, Gillian had never been one to play by the rules. She began doing some digging on her own-planting surveillance bugs in their offices, stealing files from archives, staking out their places of residence. Ultimately, she got caught; and D&C in London was naturally alerted to her presence. Hunt knew it would be curtains for her, and he certainly didn't want her facing Keats. So, he made her disappear with the understanding that they'd never see each other again. With a heavy heart, Gillian trashed her flat, making it look like an abduction, grabbed only the essentials and took off. By the time she departed on a private jet she'd chartered, she'd cut off all her hair, dyed it red, and changed her clothing. She now was a civilian.

Her life was one of solitude, sometimes welcomed and sometimes loathed. The entrapments of her past job, and now her anonymous status didn't lend themselves to meaningful interpersonal relationships. Gillian would spend her nights in the bar of her posh apartment building with a few glasses of house white to keep her company while she perused criminal justice journals. The bouncers knew to keep unsuspecting gentlemen well clear of her. Although she was attractive, she was _tired._ It was almost as if her mind refused to go there. Her apathy for her life was palpable; she couldn't be pinned down in domesticity forever.

Then, finally, Gillian got the call to bring Keats down for good. More specifically, she was here to make sure that back in 2010 the Guv was free to retire without fear that his old adversary was still in the picture. She had to do this by any means necessary; and when that term was put to Gillian Macmanus, you could bet on your life that she would.

Gillian arrived early for her shift at Romeo & Juliet's that afternoon. Swinging open the door and striding confidently inside, her gait faltered and she ripped the Ray-Bans from her eyes. Jim Keats was already seated at the far corner of the bar; there were hardly any other patrons around. Gillian hung back as she leaned against the wall, watching him. This time he'd disposed of his trenchcoat; it was folded it neatly onto the chair next to him. A cigarette dangled from his slender fingers as he drew the tobacco in deeply, exhaling out to the side. He looked akin to a character out of 'Mad Men' or a _film noir_. A slow smile of genuine admiration spread across her lips as she took him in. She then began to walk towards him slowly, then purposefully. Sweeping behind the bar, Gillian looked at Jim pointedly, saying, "Well! You're certainly here early." Jim looked up at her nonchalantly. "Yes. Thought it would be a good idea to case the establishment whilst daylight was still among us. It's much harder for crime to take place when it's not shrouded in darkness. Besides, with you behind the bar, it will be easy for me to observe the cash flow during the evening." Gillian smiled gamely. "In that case, then, your bourbon's on the house tonight. My treat." He smiled back, once again holding her gaze far longer than was appropriate.

That particular night, a Joy Division cover band took the stage. Gillian was well chuffed-she'd been a rabid fan most of her life, and although she'd been too late to catch the real deal, this would do quite well. Knowing this, one of her shiftmates came over to relieve her so she could watch the band for a few moments. Gillian whooped, punching her fist in the air. Jim looked genuinely amused at this; as she rounded the corner of the bar towards the stage, he grabbed her arm softly. "I take it they're one of your favorites?" he intoned, a curious smile on his face. "Oh, GOD. You don't even know. I mean, this is a cover band, but still. I never got to see Joy Division the first time around, so this is the closest I'm gonna get," she replied excitedly. And with that, she moved out to the dance floor. She'd purposefully worn a t-shirt she found in a shop with Ian Curtis' silhouette on a black background, along with a frayed denim mini, fuschia tights, black ankle boots, and a cropped military-style jacket. The band struck up 'Digital', and Gillian nearly went mental. Within moments, she'd insinuated herself into the crushing mass of people, jumping in unison with the crowd which eventually turned into a sweaty mosh pit. Jim couldn't take his eyes off of her: _Here was a woman who could hold her own against National Front neo-Nazis and mohawked throwbacks from the end of punk, _he thought, chuckling inside.

Something alien was stirring within him; it was something he could not identify, nor was it something he could ignore. Gillian then walked back towards the bar as the song ended. She'd taken off her jacket and tied it round her waist; her cheeks were flushed and her skin was slightly moist. As she smiled at him, Jim suddenly wondered how it would feel underneath his touch. And then, a stab of anger ran through him as he remembered her caring for Hunt's young DI the night before. _Had she smiled at him that way? Worse yet, had he touched her? Had he traced every line, every curve in her face? _Jim's expression darkened considerably as he stared at Gillian going back to her business of cashing out patrons and pouring shots for still more. Feeling his eyes on her, Gillian turned to face him. Upon seeing him like this, she countered, "Yeah...I think you need another drink." She laughed as she poured bourbon into his glass, dismissing him. However, Jim couldn't dismiss what was occurring in the deepest confines of his brain.

Gillian's shift finally over, she drove along Manchester's back streets, routes she'd learned from the Guv all those years ago. She smiled as she recalled sliding around in the back of the A4, holding on for dear life as Gene drove like a maniac en route to one blag or another. _Ahhh,_ she sighed, _the good old days._ With that thought, a car screeched around the corner. Gillian caught sight of it in her wing mirror; the thing was practically on two frickin' wheels! _There's only one person who drives like that, _she concluded. She pulled over onto the kerb as anyone with an ounce of common sense would do whilst sharing the road with Gene Hunt. To her surprise, he pulled up behind her and got out of the car, marching with purpose towards her passenger side door. Without waiting for an invitation, he let himself in.

"DCI Hunt, to what do I owe the honour?" Gillian turned to face him. "I'm 'ere to do you a favour, Daisy. Now, whilst I think you should have let me carry on teaching that great big pain in my arse Michael Pilkinton a lesson last night, **AND**, whilst your nation cannot play an honest game of football without the whole team getting dressed up like Michelin men..." Gene paused before finishing his sentence. "I like you. You seem to be a nice lass." She bit her lip and smiled graciously. Any sarcastic comment that may have been dying to burst out of her mouth at that point would no doubt have been ill-received. "Do yourself a favour, luv, and stay away from that slimy, pencil-necked bastard Keats. Whatever he says, no matter how charming he is or how much he tugs on your knicker elastic; do **NOT** trust him." Gene sat back in the seat, his lips pursed in his trademark pout. Gillian's head tilted and she sighed. "I appreciate your concern," her voice was sincere if a little weary, "but you don't have to worry about me. I'm trained to deal with people like him; even dismantle them limb-from-limb." With that last syllable, she cringed. She couldn't help herself.

Gene, sharp as a tack as always, was on her case straight away. "Oh, yes, Mrs Woman? They teach you that at barmaid school, do they? Is that between Flirting With The Punters 101 and How To Make A Really Good Lager Top Class 202?" He folded his arms triumphantly. Gillian had no answer for him; she could have easily bulls***ted anyone else, but not her own Guv. "So, why don't you start by telling me who you really are, because I'm not stepping one foot out of this car until you do. You do NOT want to know what I will do to you if I am seen sat in a Datsun bloody Sunny, so make it quick! I 'av had about enough of you yanking my ruddy chain!"

Gillian took a deep breath as if to compose herself, staring straight ahead. "Obviously, you've guessed I'm not a barmaid. Well, not by profession, anyway." "Oh, you don't say?" Gene scolded. "But I'm here to help, Gene, you have to believe me." She turned her head in his direction, eyes pleading with him to understand the impossible. "Oh, I've 'eard that one before, luv; that was Keats' opening line when they sent him to pissing spy on me!" Gene's voice boomed, his pale skin slowly becoming flushed with irritation. Gillian's eyes were intense, willing him to trust her. "But_who spies on Keats,_ Gene?" She leaned in closer, and with that there was silence, a knowing silence. "Are you saying...?" Gene seemed taken aback, stammering, "Why would they send a bird? " "I trained at Quantico before coming over to England. Whether one likes my tactics or not, one can't deny that I'm the best woman for the job." "Tell me, does Quantico have a machine churning out annoying, posh, mouthy tarts? Believe me, you're not the first one I've met!" Gene rolled his eyes in disbelief. Gillian laughed, "Really? I find that very hard to believe." "Yer, my DI before Michael, 'er name was Alex. Head full of brains she had, and a bloody answer for everything." She noticed Gene's voice was sad, and his eyes seemed in a faraway place. "I knew an Alex Price while I was there?"she offered. "Nah, can't be the same one...our Bolly was a Drake, not a Price," he concluded in a casual tone. "Bolly?" she gave him a half smile, knowing there must be a story behind it. "Bolly as in Bollinger, the champagne. Bollinger Knickers, to give 'er her Sunday name." Gene sniffed, trying to look unmoved by the memory but not quite managing it.

"_Help me nail Keats._" Gillian dropped this proposition out of nowhere, surprising even herself. Gene ran his hand over his face as if he were about to do something he may live to regret. "What do you need?" "I need to get in to his office; there must be something, anything-I need to dig up some dirt. I'd only need a few minutes, half an hour tops." Gillian bartered as Gene looked pensive. "All right, meet me tomorrow night at the station. I'll say you're helping us as a material witness to investigate that s***hole club you work in." With that, he let himself out of the car; but before walking back to his own vehicle, he turned back and knocked on her window. "Don't underestimate him, Daisy, he might not look much but he's ruthless, our Jimbo. You'll need eyes in the back of your 'ed with that one." Gillian stared as Gene got into his car. As he drove into the darkness, she wondered if he'd been exaggerating a bit in his dire warnings. Shrugging, she shook her head as if to snap herself out of it and, starting her car, drove the rest of the way back to her flat.


	5. Chapter 5

That next evening, thankful for finally getting the go-ahead from Gene Hunt, Gillian immediately went to work upon receiving the keys to the station from Hunt. Slipping into the stifling heat of Keats' office, she set about unlocking the top drawer to his desk with a sharp metal file and a dismantled paper clip. She'd done this so many times before it was almost too easy; alas, however, it was in the glory days, the days before passwords and encrypted files. The drawer at last pinged open, surrendering itself to her. It seemed to be full of brown paper files. She could only afford to take a few; otherwise, he would miss them right away. Grabbing the top two files and presuming them to be the most recent, Gillian stuffed them into her carryall. She stood up ready to make her exit, securing the drawer and making sure nothing was out of place. Pleased with her efforts, Gillian turned to leave, only to be met by James Keats himself. His face was contorted into a grimace, nostrils flaring and teeth grinding. She tried to manoeuvre around him towards the door, but she didn't get far. Jim put his arm out, blocking her passage. "Go ahead, Gillian, explain to me why you are in a in a senior police officer's realm both unaccompanied and uninvited." His breath was hot on her face and the temperature in the room served to make her lightheaded. "I'd like to leave now, Jim," she breathed, trying to maintain composure. "Oh, you aren't going anywhere," Keats snarled, his voice rising several octaves. "Are you threatening me?" Gillian stood face-to-face with him with only steel in her eyes. "It's your choice," he bellowed. Jim couldn't believe his eyes. She wasn't backing down, and worse, she wasn't offering any kind of explanation. Her eyes were emotionless and calm. No one had ever given him this reaction before. Anger, yes. Fury, yes. But not..._nothing. _Jim's shoulders slumped in defeat; he walked back to his desk and sat down, taking his glasses off. He rubbed his eyes in frustration, keeping them closed as he repeated, "You have in your possession files that do not belong to you. As you are a civilian, this is a punishable offence. I will have no choice but to prosecute you to the fullest extent. Why on earth would anything in D&C be of such keen interest to you?"

Gillian paced the room back and forth slowly as he spoke, her eyes calculating his every move. Then, moving behind him as he bent his head, she leaned down, whispering: _"I think you and I both know I'm not a barmaid."_ Keats then heard a soft click next to his ear. Before he knew it, Gillian had cuffed his hands behind his back, his body now locked to the chair. Jim cried out in frustration, but Gillian only walked over and straddled his hips, grabbing hold of his tie and tightening it within an inch of his life. "Yelling will only make things worse. No one can hear you," she murmured in a low tone, her eyes locked onto his. The combination of the stirrings felt the night before and her body now pressing against his was both strange and oddly arousing to him, and his body responded in kind despite his self-discipline. Gillian decided to use this to her advantage and began removing his tie, draping it behind her neck when she finished. She slowly unbuttoned the first three buttons of Jim's shirt and placed her lips on the skin beneath, feeling him gasp in surprise. A small moan escaped him and she soon unstraddled him, moving to his trousers and unbuttoning them. He looked down at her as she knelt in front of him, the emotionless look still in her green eyes. Automatically, she unzipped his trousers and reached for him. Upon finding his throbbing heat, she gently guided it out. Gillian restraddled his hips, and when she raised the hem of her sweater dress a bit further, Jim caught a small, yet tantalizing glimpse of the garter belt used to hold up her black stockings. But before he could form a coherent thought, Gillian impaled herself on him. Jim groaned audibly. She could feel herself start to let go, her hips now working on autopilot, merely serving to make him more and more frantic with need for her. She positioned herself so that they couldn't watch each other as she laced her fingers into his dark locks, pressing her cheek into his. With every thrust, she breathed into his ear, the breath making every hair on Jim's neck stand on end. She then whispered, _"I'm not going away...I know all about you...how you tick, how you respond..."_ Gillian thrusted harder and another moan escaped his lips. _"...You are going to let me get what I want...no demands, no conditions..."_ His mind was a sea of bliss and confusion. _Who was this woman who dared to make a slave of him, and in his office no less?_ She continued to grip Keats' hair and closed her eyes silently, becoming more and more aware of her own growing desire for him. Upon the acknowledgement of this, she became instantly flushed, and felt a familiar coil down below. Her nails raked down the back of Jim's shirt as she maintained her pace, squeezing her eyes shut and willing her orgasm away. It was too late; she began to feel the tension beginning. Pulling her cheek away from Jim's, she bit down on her own lip as she came hard, stifling her screams to a soft whimper. Jim's face was as if he were in awe as she cupped his face with one hand; she assumed he'd never seen a woman lose control. Regaining composure, she maintained her pace on him, burying her face in his neck. As Gillian pressed her lips to his cool flesh, Jim's brain was clouded with lust and he could hold on no more. He cried out as the waves of most intense, most achingly satisfying release washed over him, but Gillian silenced him with her thumb and forefinger. Jim bit down onto her thumb in reaction, which made a soft groan escape from her lips.

Gillian pushed the damp hair away from her eyes and gazed upon him. He wanted nothing more than to break free of his cuffs and touch her. Gillian saw the look in his eyes and felt the flush return to her cheeks. She couldn't let Jim see her looking like that as she still had the upper hand. Quickly composing herself, she lifted herself off of him, straightening her garter and smoothing back down the folds of her dress. As she did this, Jim watched her almost voyeuristically. _No, this is far from over,_ he thought. His need for her, juxtaposed with his frustration at her, was deeper and darker than anything he'd ever experienced; it now threatened to overpower his hate for Gene Hunt.

Gillian pulled the tie from behind her neck and finally spoke. "I'm sure you won't mind if I hang on to this? I always like coming back home with a souvenir." Her voice was cold and dismissive. The look on Keats' face was one of inexplicable incredulity. She was playing him at his own game of temptation and he was losing.

Gillian walked behind him and placed the keys to the handcuffs in his cupped hands before picking up her bag which still carried the files and turning on her heels. She then walked out of Jim's office without a second glance, closing the door behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

Gillian finally reached her flat and closed the door, making sure it was deadlocked before resting against it and breathing a sigh of relief. For all of her bravado, she couldn't quite believe what she had just done. She closed her eyes and upon opening them again she noticed that the TV set had sparked itself to life and she was faced with Amy's disapproving face. "Don't, Amy, just...**don't,**" she said flatly, rolling her eyes. She knew exactly what her best friend would make of her behaviour. It's not like she made a habit of having sex with case suspects. There had been more than a few close calls, but this was her first foray into the abyss. Gillian couldn't deny to herself that it had been exhilarating; Jim Keats was a formidable man, and there was a part of her deep down that longed to possess him, to bring him to his knees for good.

_"You have a temperature, Gilly,"_ Amy's voice crackled from the television set. _"I don't understand it; it can't be the drugs you've been under for days, but this entire last hour you've been burning up. I'm going to check your IV line. It's nearly impossible that any bacteria could have seeped in, but you can't be sure." _Amy's brow furrowed as she looked down at her friend's still, seemingly lifeless body._"Whatever you're up to in there, Gilly, tread carefully."_ With that, the screen returned to white noise and Gillian rushed to switch it off.

She gulped audibly; resting her hand on her forehead, she did feel warmer. Brushing her concerns aside, she set the files from Keats' office down on the table. Taking the first one, she opened it tentatively. "Oh God..." Gillian gasped. It was Michael's-the young DI she'd helped and counselled after he got on the wrong side of Gene Hunt two nights prior. Moreover, he was the one Keats didn't seem to take to kindly to. She read on.

_Name: Michael David Pilkington  
Date of Birth: 15th March 1976_

Below in neat blue fountain pen writing, presumably by Keats' own hand, was a set of notes.

_"Subject is not perceived as a 'team player' by his colleagues; however, he does not seem to be willing to betray any of them._

Subject appears to be a stickler for the rules, likes things to be done meticulously and by the book.

Subject is only too aware of his predicament but very much believes that he will, 'wake up' at some point. As his desperation grows, subject may become more suggestible. Subject is starting to have momentary outbursts of mania, normally directed at DCI Hunt."

The bastard had detailed every weakness, every chink in Michael's armour. It was clear Jim had plans for him...but what? Gillian sat, resting her head in her hands. She should have known he was different, the way he dared to stand up to the Guv. "I'm not going to be here long anyway, he can think what he wants. I don't need his approval," he'd uttered through his burst lip as she cleaned the blood off of his chin in the office bathroom. Upon inspecting the file further, she came upon a video tape; as Gillian was only too aware of what it would contain, she placed it to one side.

The second file was that of one Alex Drake. "Oh, my GOD..." She could scarcely believe her eyes; the small, 4x6 file picture held a familiar face. It was Alex Price; her Alex and the Guv's Alex were one and the same, of course! _How did I miss that one? And I call myself a detective,_ Gillian smirked at herself. Sure, this Alex looked a little older, more mature, but those telltale high cheekbones, the chocolate-coloured hair; they were unmistakable. She set about riffling through the file, this whole venture suddenly feeling a whole lot more personal. What happened to you, Alex?, she wondered.

There were reams of notes, all in Keats' looping handwriting.

_"Subject has been here coming up on 3 years; this is an extraordinary amount of time, every effort will be made to have her processed as quickly as possible._

Subject keeps a number of cassettes of her own thoughts and musings, constantly trying to make sense of her situation.

Subject seems to have formed a more than professional relationship with DCI Hunt; however, she still harbours doubts as to his methods and seems to be concerned with what he is capable of.

Subject seems to have unshakable loyalty to her team, though I suspect this may be compromised if an offer is made to get her back 'home' to her daughter."

Gillian covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting to read further. Gene had said that Alex had "moved on", had to go somewhere else. Her heart sank as she silently prayed that what she was thinking wasn't true. Skimming through the pages, she finally came to the last page. Right at the bottom in red ink were the words_ "SUBJECT UNOBTAINABLE."_ Gillian felt a jubilant, relieved smile creep across her features as she said aloud, "He didn't get you, did he? You always were a clever girl."

She was shaken from her merriment by an aggressive knock at the door. Scooping up both files and placing them back in her bag, she made her way to door. She had an idea of who it was going to be, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. She opened the door only slightly. "Evening, James; to what do I owe the pleasure?" Gillian smiled up at him, noting sardonically that he'd bothered to clean up and put on a different tie. She laughed further inside as she recalled the image of him handcuffed and writhing beneath her. "Cut the s*** now, Gillian; you know what I am here for. You're lucky I've not had you dealt with already." Keats' voice was low and threatening. She opened the door, stepping aside to grant him access.

"If you're here for a repeat performance, James, I am sorry to say I have a headache." But before she could finish her thought, he wrapped a hand around her throat and pinned her to the wall, a frightening glare crossing his features. "You've **NO** idea who you are messing with Gillian, do not test me. **WHERE. ARE. MY. FILES.**" She looked up at him; her eyes were large, green and curious, but still, he didn't sense an ounce of fear within her. His face contorted further, but she reached out a hand to his tie and yanked him down to her eye level. "If you want them, James, you're gonna have to fight me for them, darling." Her voice was menacing yet seductive. Jim seemed to reel at her proposition. He should have killed her, ransacked her flat, done anything in his vast power to regain those files, but something in him wanted the fight, wanted the victory. And, strangely enough, he wanted to know who this infuriating woman was who dared challenge him.

With that, she wrapped his tie around her fists, tugging so hard he could barely breathe. He began to struggle, grasping at her wrist, thus releasing his grip from around her own neck. Seeing an opportunity, Gillian launched at him with all of her weight; disoriented, Jim fell back onto the table. Once again, Gillian found herself straddling him. "What's with the interest in Michael, Jim?" She pulled at his tie with all of her strength until his face burned red. To her dismay, Jim let out a laugh so hollow and so fierce that her blood ran cold. In an instant, he had flipped her over so she was the one laid on the table, her arms pinned above her head effortlessly by one of his hands, making her sigh audibly.

"Gillian, I thought you were intelligent enough not to mention another man's name whilst you were with me." His face was merely inches from hers now. "Why, Jim, are you jealous?" she mocked. The snarl spreading across his features told her she'd hit the nail on the head. Gillian continued in a low, almost hoarse grumble. "Do you imagine us f**king, Jim? Michael and I? Do you imagine him on top of me, driving into me within an inch of my life? More importantly, do you wonder how you measured up?" She saw the look in his eyes and stopped. _Oh, God,_ she thought,_ I've gone too far; he clearly has the upper hand._ For once in his life, Jim could feel the steely resolve giving way; the very thought that another man might have laid his hands on her made him sick to his stomach; what was happening to him? "**SHUT UP!**" he yelled, almost sounding as though he was in pain. Taking a moment to regain a few iotas of composure he swallowed, continuing. "Not so clever when you don't have me chained to a chair, are you, Gillian? Shall we see how it feels to be on the receiving end of this humiliation? _**SHALL WE, GILLIAN?**_" She could feel the blood racing through her veins; the truth was, she was dying for it. With that, he grabbed a pair of nylon stockings from the back of the chair behind her, using the first one to tie her wrists, thus leaving both his hands free to explore her further. The second one he doubled over and placed between her teeth, securing it in a firm knot behind her head. He took a moment to observe her; she was the most exquisite creature he had ever beheld, laid there before him completely at his mercy. He knew he shouldn't be doing this; he knew this was utterly selfish and that it would serve his work in no measurable way. This was very unlike Jim. He never took his eyes off the prize, not for a moment; however, from this angle, he concluded that the prize had changed.

Gillian couldn't hide the look of disappointment as he climbed off of her and off the table; he let out a smug laugh. "Oh, don't worry, my darling Gillian; I'm not done with you yet." Jim ran a cold hand over her bare knee, continuing a short way up the inside of her thigh, making her moan softly. "I've not even gotten started; I just think we should move somewhere a little more comfortable." He offered her his hand, and as soon as Gillian offered up her wrists to him, he pulled her up off the table and into the bedroom.

Once they were in the bedroom, he invited her to sit on the bed. Slowly, he took off his jacket and loosened the tie that she had very nearly throttled him with only a few minutes ago. He knelt before her, parting her knees slightly so that he could wrest himself between them. His deep brown eyes scanned over her; she was clad in the same sweater dress as earlier on when she'd tormented him in his office. Jim's hand was at her ankle, slowly drawing up her stocking-clad leg. "I must confess to a fondness for stockings, Gillian; they do something to a man." He spoke softly; reaching the top of her stocking, he began to roll it down slowly, tentatively. Each time his hand caught the bare flesh of her thigh it burned her like ice. He moved to do the same to the other leg. "You see, I am a very patient man, Gillian. Most men would have had this whole sordid little situation over and done with by now. But I, I prefer to drag it out so that it takes a very, _VERY _long time." Jim laid a kiss at the inside of her thigh, then another, and another, and another. She found herself laying back to grant him greater access. His freezing hands reached up to push her dress further out of his way.

Quickly he rid himself of his shirt; looking at her with savage eyes, Jim lifted one of her legs over his shoulder and pushed the other aside. Gillian gasped, biting down on the makeshift gag as his tongue finally explored her. Straining against him, her sighs grew frantic. She was almost, almost there when he retreated. "Bastard!" she exclaimed through her gag. He chuckled knowingly, reaching to undo his belt. "Patience, Gillian," he cooed, freeing himself from the confines of his trousers and shorts. Then, leaning back down, Jim spoke into her ear. "Do you think your twee little Michael would spend so much time on you the way that I have?" Realising that he was still racked with jealousy, Gillian laughed cruelly in his direction.

There was a slight look of hurt on his features, but it was quickly replaced by one of absolute outrage. Grabbing a handful of her flame-red hair, Jim pushed her over onto her stomach, kicking her legs open with his own. "Why do you have this effect on me, Gillian?" He hissed into her ear and put his hand on her shoulder as, in one swift motion, he thrust completely into her. The thrill alone of him finally inside her was almost enough to send her spiralling out of control. His other arm then wrapped around her, settling on her breast. She was so aroused that it took only a few hard thrusts before her muscles were clamping down around him as she came, crying out through her nylon restraints. Jim's hands gripped onto her hips. She couldn't see his face but suddenly he bit down on her shoulder; his hips pressed into her savagely as he orgasmed even harder than he had earlier.

For a few moments, Jim collapsed on top of her, his head resting in the crook of Gillian's neck. She felt a strange affection stirring within her, willing him to pull her close. However, he quickly lifted himself off of her; she heard him zip up his trousers and fumble around for his shirt. He finally rolled her over and sat her up; Gillian felt drunk. Pulling the gag from her lips, Jim silenced her with a long, arduous kiss, his tongue slowly teasing the confines of her mouth as he loosened her wrists. Gillian's hands flew up to his neck, her fingers once again passionately splaying against his dark curls. Pulling away once more, he still didn't let her speak, instead resting a finger on her lips. "Now, if I ever see you near Michael Pilkington ever again, I will kill him; and then, Gillian, I will kill _**you**_." His voice was level and calm. "Are we clear?" Gillian, in her heady state, could only manage a nod. Satisfied with her answer, Jim picked up his suit jacket and exited the room. Gillian was only shaken from her trance by the sound of the front door slamming shut.


	7. Chapter 7

The very next morning Gillian stood in the shower, listening to some local radio station that seemed to be obsessed with 'chilling out and winding down.' Rubbing her hands over her sore, nylon-burnt wrists, she let her mind go blank. She'd received death threats before, it came with the job; but when Jim had threatened to take her life, it was different. It was so measured, so honest, she would have been a fool not to believe him. The real head f**k was this: when did that become a turn on? Since when was she so needy that she needed a man to covet her above all others so intensely that he'd rather see her dead than with another man? She was interrupted from her lament by the radio losing its station.

_"Oh Gilly, what is happening to you?"_ It was Amy's voice; she sounded tired and worried. _"Your temperature is increasing...why won't you respond to the treatment?" _Gillian turned off the shower and walked over to the radio; holding it in damp hands, she could barely speak. _"You're sick Gilly, and you're weak. If you can hear me, proceed with caution; this is not a good sign."_ Amy's voice was staunch and factual, but she could sense her concern.

Once again, Gillian made her way to the club; she was growing rather fond of the place, truth be told. The customers were friendly, and the work was hard but simple enough that she could let her mind wander. But, her real love of the place stemmed from the fact that it gave her an opportunity to observe Gene and his gang, who seemed to have made the place their new watering hole. At first, of course, it was to keep an eye on the place; but now she wasn't so sure. She suspected that they all began to begrudgingly like it despite complaining about the beer and the music constantly.

First to the bar was Michael. Gillian scolded herself for looking around to see if Jim was lurking in the shadows somewhere. "What can I get you?" she smiled in greeting. "I will have a pint of Carling, please and whatever you're having. I'm celebrating!" Michael beamed, his lip still swollen from Gene's wrath a few days ago but the altercation now seemed all but forgotten."Oh yeah? What's the good news?" She looked up from pulling his pint. "I have been offered a promotion...well, sort of, more of a move sideways. But the best part is, I don't have to work with Fred Flintstone anymore!" He tapped his fingers on the bar as if to give himself a drum roll. "_Sideways?_" she repeated with a raised eyebrow, trying to fathom what he meant.

"Yep- same job, different gaffer. DCI Keats has asked me to be his DI. Said after the other night, he could tell me n' Hunt couldn't work together-says he'll give me more responsibility and freedom, and I thought, 'why not'? Think this could be key, Gillian, this could be what I need to get home!" Michael clapped his hands together jubilantly. Gillian's heart was in her throat. "Great." Her voice was weak and hollow. "When do you start?" She reached out a hand to take his payment. "Tomorrow, I think; Jim's going to tell Gene tonight so don't be too surprised if it kicks off again in here later."

With that, the doors flung open and Keats strode in as if he owned the place. His eyes settled on Michael leaning on the bar, inches from Gillian. The look on his face was smug but incredibly sinister. "Gillian, get me my usual and whatever my new DI here is drinking." His voice was detached, but it was clear he wasn't going to spare Gene any consideration; he'd just poached his DI and he was going to make sure everyone knew it. Lighting his cigarette, Gillian could sense his eyes burning into her every move. She then busied herself for as long as she possibly could until she had no choice but to stand by the bar and wait for Jim to come and make conversation.

"I see you were busy getting to know my new DI, Gillian." His voice was calm but dripping with sarcasm. "Was he telling you all about his exciting new promotion?" Jim seemed far too amused for her liking. She couldn't resist; she had to bite. "What in the hell are you up to, Jim?" She spat viciously, her voice hushed. Jim merely looked back at her, his eyes mocking her. "Well, I needed a DI, and I really couldn't think of anyone better but dear, old Michael over there; so brave, so trusting..." Gillian's jaw dropped slightly at what he was alluding to. "But, it's a dangerous job; he'll be in the front lines, never far from harm's way. _Anything_ could happen." Keats chuckled a cold and false laugh. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her outrage; she ground her teeth and shook her head. "Oh, your face, Gillian; it's a picture." Jim threw his head back, laughing hysterically.

That night she would do something that she never thought she would; but the phrase_ "by any means necessary"_ couldn't escape her. These were just about as exceptional as circumstances could get. The night well underway, the crowd crushing to the beat, Gillian stood by the stage door and handed a wad of rolled up notes to a stranger. "And you're _sure_ you can get it." She spoke definitively, trying to sound like she'd done this many times before. "I can get anything you want, darlin'; what you do with it is up to you." And with that, the stranger was away into the dark, rainy evening.

Her sleep was restless again that evening. Gillian looked longingly at the television set in the corner of her living room. "Got anything for me, Amz? What's the news? Amz...Amy! Anybody...?" But no one answered. She found her thoughts drifting to the one place they shouldn't. She thought it a massive cliché that she wasn't lonely before she had met Jim. She'd relished her freedom, finding comfort in living alone; and now, she felt as though he had awoken something within her that she'd never be able to ignore.

Gillian was occupied the next day at Romeo and Juliet's, making sure the till from the night before had been cashed out, then zeroing out the balance on the register so it was ready for today's business. Suddenly, Gene battered through the doors, seemingly not content to leave it on its hinges. "**Oi, Daisy! **Get me a drink; a real drink not any of that piss water that you try and pass off as lager. Get me a whiskey!", he bellowed, taking his place on the bar stool in front of her. "_Seriously?_ It's 11.30 in the morning!" she exclaimed in disbelief. "I know, got some catching up to do, 'aven't I? I'm normally on me second by now!" Gillian knew not to argue with him when he was in this mood. It's not like she could warn that it would kill him; she knew he was still going strong, well into his 60s back in 2010. She poured him a large whiskey and set it before him. Not asking for payment, she looked at him with understanding eyes. "What's up?" she dared. "Nothin', " he grumbled, raising the glass to pursed lips. "Ummm...right. Sure doesn't look like 'nothing'." Gillian observed him as she pretended to polish a few glasses.

"That bloody Judas, Michael; I knew he was a whinging, whining, Southern dickhead but I never had him pinned for this!" Gene's voice was rough; he was clearly livid.

"What's he done?" Gillian decided that pleading ignorance was the best policy; no need to rub salt in the wound by telling him Jim had been in the previous evening announcing it to all and sundry.

"He's only gone to work with that pencil-necked, four-eyed bastard Keats, can you believe it? He'll be lucky to see any real police work again, the sniveling little sod. Keats will have him sharpening his pencils and alphabetising his copies of potholing bloody monthly! How I stopped myself from kicking him down those bleedin' stairs I will never know!" Without drawing a breath, Gene downed the whiskey in one shot.

"Wait-why were they going downstairs?" Gillian placed her hand on the bar in front of Gene as if to emphasise her point. "Keats' office is on your floor; why would he be going _downstairs?_" Suddenly, she felt deeply nervous, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I dunno-who do I look like, Doris bloody Stokes?" Gene seemed disgruntled; he had hoped for a sympathetic ear. "Where are you going, woman? Why are you running about like a sodding whirling dervish?" He looked on, confused as Gillian raced around behind the bar collecting her bag and car keys. She fled by Gene towards the door. "Whoa whoa whoa!" He managed to catch her arm as she attempted to whiz past him. "I'll explain on the way; come on, we don't have much time! Let's use your car, it's faster!" Gillian rattled the words out as fast as her tongue would allow. This in turn pulled Gene to his feet; he followed her as she fled out the door. "**OI! DAISY!** Hold up right there, missus! Oh we'll take my car, will we? Well, fine-but you're not driving. I've seen you drive that Datsun of yours, you're like Stirling Moss in a wonder bra!" For a moment she paused, staring at him indignantly despite her great hurry. "Well, I supposed I learned from the best then, didn't I?" Gillian threw him a grin that told him she knew something he didn't know. No sooner had she slammed the car door than they were hurtling once again through the back streets of Manchester, this time in the direction of Manchester CID.


	8. Chapter 8

Slamming through the doors of CID, Gene walked with purpose as Gillian followed close behind. "Skip, where's Michael?" he demanded. The middle-aged skipper behind the desk looked at Gene with half-lidded eyes. "I dunno, Guv, prolly down in the canteen or 'avin a s*** or something." Gene's eyebrows arched in despair. "See that, Daisy?" He gestured towards the unamused-looking Skip. "Manchester's finest!" Gene's voice raised sharply as he added, "Is that really the best we can do?" The Skip shrugged his shoulders. "I saw him going about earlier with DCI Keats-Keats was on about taking Michael for processing, something to do with his new ..." At this, the Skip paused, fearful of Gene's reaction, before finishing: "..._job._" Gillian glanced at Gene and knew that at any moment, he was likely to break into a rant about how he demanded loyalty from his team and this was his ship, etc., etc. Before he had a chance to, however, she was gone, making a U-turn and going down the stairs of CID as fast as her legs would take her. "Daisy! **DAISY, YOU DAFT MARE-WAIT A MINUTE!**" She could hear Gene calling out to her, but there was no time to spare.

She raced through corridors, down stairwell after stairwell; in the end, it was the overwhelming heat that led her there. She looked through a set of double doors just ahead of her and saw Michael and Jim stood just in front of a set of lifts. Creeping near the doors ever so slightly, she was able to eavesdrop on their conversation. "Michael, I should have explained you will no longer be based in CID with the rest of us; the work you would be carrying out will be top secret, you'll need to be out of sight." Jim's voice was charming as ever. "Gene never saw your true potential, Michael, but I'll be using you on real crime, stuff you can really sink yourself into." He continued to speak, but the sweat on Michael's brow told her he wasn't buying what Keats was selling anymore. Michael swallowed hard and replied cautiously. "Thanks, sir. I mean, I really appreciate it, but I don't think I can leave Gene. We don't always see eye-to-eye, but we're a team. He needs me."

"Yer, like a hole in the bloody head," a low voice mumbled. Much to her relief, Gene was stood behind her. She was glad to not be standing alone.

"I'm afraid going back to Gene is not an option, Michael," Jim chided. "You have made your decision; now get in the lift, there's a good lad."

"No, sir, I won't." There it was again, that steely resolve that Michael commanded every now and then.

It took all of Gillian's strength to hold Gene back as Jim then pulled a gun on Michael. "This is not a request, DI Pilkington, this is an order. **GET. IN. THE. LIFT!**" Jim barked.

She turned to Gene and, looking him dead in the eye, said, "_I can handle this._ Just have my back, okay?" Gillian tried to assure him, placing a dainty hand on his chest. With that, she crept towards the door as Keats took the catch off his gun, ready to fire. "One last time, Michael, get in the lift." Jim spoke softly but menacingly. Still, Michael would not budge. "What a shame; Gillian will wonder where you have gotten off to..." The now-familiar jealousy seemed to drip from every syllable, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger. Gillian could wait no longer; she lunged towards him, sticking a hypodermic needle into his neck. Jim struggled for a moment but within seconds he was slumped on the floor, the gun falling from his hands.

"What the ruddy 'ell was that?" Gene stood over Jim's still body. "Gamma hydroxybutyrate...at least I think that's what it's called." Gillian smiled up at Gene; she was now resting Jim's head on her lap, rubbing the spot in his neck where she had injected him. "It will induce a coma; I've not given him much, though. He'll be fine." She tried to sound confident. "And 'ere was me going to hit 'im." Gene playfully nudged Jim's ribs with his boot, earning him a scowl from Gillian, who pushed his foot away. "What do we do with him now?" Michael asked, rubbing the sweat from his eyes. Gillian snapped into action. "We can take him to mine, let him sleep it off there- we just need to get him out of here."

Jim was not at his dignified best being wheeled comatose around the car parks of CID in an old office chair, but there was no other option. Of course, this option amused Gene and Michael to no end; the pair of them seemed to have buried their differences once and for all. Meanwhile, Gillian couldn't ignore the growing sense of guilt she felt. He'd really given her no option, she reasoned, but she remembered how strange it felt slipping into that darkness herself, even with Amy's cool voice and kind hand to hold.

"Put him on the sofa, he'll be fine there...and be careful with him!" she moaned. "Er, Gillian, he tried to **KILL ME!**" Michael stood above Jim's still body that was now laid out on her sofa. "Here, 'av these, you'll need to secure him to summat when he wakes up." Gene held out a pair of handcuffs to her. "Oh, it's okay, I've got my own," she said flippantly. "Oh I bet you _'ave_, you kinky devil!" Gene didn't miss a beat. Well, okay. She asked for that. "Come on, Michael, let's give Miss Cat-O'-Nine-Tails here some peace!"

Once they were gone, she reluctantly took Jim's wrists and secured them both together in handcuffs, making sure they were not too tight. She knew when he woke up he might just try and fulfill that promise of killing her. Sitting on the floor by the sofa, she stroked a stray curl back from his forehead. She'd never seen him sleep before. _How strange,_ she thought, _I have seen him vulnerable, but never as vulnerable as this._ For once she could look at him-really look at him. He was more beautiful than she'd ever noticed. His eyelashes were long and thick, resting on his cheeks. His lips were full and perfect; Gillian reached a finger out to trace their outline.

_"You're doing better today, Gilly, you had me worried there."_ Before turning around, Gillian knew the sight that would greet her; Amy's face, looking down on her through the TV screen once again. Her heart rose slightly at the sound of her friend's voice. _"Just thought I'd come sit with you for a while,"_ she sighed. _"It's been a long day." _Amy digressed as though she and Gillian were sat over a up of coffee in Starbucks. _"I dunno why I even bother going home these days; every time I do, I just get in the bath or something and the phone goes to drag me back here." _Gillian sighed, not taking her eyes of the TV screen but resting her head gently on Jim's upper arm. _"The sad thing is, you're in a self-induced coma and you still have more company than me!"_ Gillian rolled her eyes. _"You have a John Doe in the bed next to you now; he was brought in earlier. He's a copper, we know that much, but so far we can't find a next-of-kin, a file, no records whatsoever, poor bugger..."_ Amy's eye_s seemed to be looking at the far side of the room. "I might go have another look through his stuff; there must be someone to miss him...I'd miss him if he were mine!" _she laughed. With that, Amy's face faded and once again the screen descended into white noise. Gillian turned back to Jim, covering him with a blanket from the back of the sofa before retreating to her own bed.

Amy sat in her office trailing through countless missing-persons reports and archived files. _Come on, Mr. Doe, you have to be here somewhere..._, she thought to herself absently.

(1984)

Gillian woke from her sleep feeling well and truly awful. She was sick, sicker than she had been in a long, long time- maybe ever. She pulled an old, oversized T-shirt over her head and staggered to the living room, her legs barely willing to take her. She noted her hands were freezing cold, but she felt boiling hot. Getting herself a glass of water she looked at Jim, still laid out on the sofa.

(2010)

Amy had all but given up hope; she'd trawled through report after report looking at each photograph in turn, but no one looked remotely like the officer in the bed next to Gillian. She was now into files dating from the early 80's and this guy didn't look any older than maybe 32 or 33. He'd have been nothing more than a kid during that time. Just when she was about to call it quits, Amy spotted him. But it couldn't be, could it? _It must be his Dad or something, surely, _she thought. Scanning the notes, she could see the picture was from a prison siege in London, 1983. Two fatalities; one police officer and one inmate. _"DCI Jim Keats was with the officer when he died; cause of death-gunshot wound to the upper torso," _it read.

Keats. DCI Jim Keats. Why did Amy know that name? Then, it dawned on her-fear instantly took over as her blood ran cold.

(1984)

Still shaking and sweating, Gillian's eyes fell on Jim. Something was wrong. There was a connection there, if she could only think through her splitting headache. She thought back to what Amy had said to her earlier, that there was another officer in the bed next to hers in the hospital-more importantly, that they couldn't trace him. She stared aghast at Jim, outraged. "**You absolute bastard!**" she cried in the direction of his still-motionless body. "You...you would kill me while I'm unconscious?" Gillian felt tears stinging her eyes, something that hadn't happened in a very, very long time. She was so weak; it was like the life was literally being sucked out of her. She didn't know how, but he was killing her, and soon she would be dead in both decades. She sat beside him and stroked his face with a trembling hand; he didn't look capable of such an act. She kissed him lightly on his lips, her lips quivering. "Why are you doing this to me, Jim?" she whimpered, tears falling from her eyes onto his cheeks.

(2010)

Amy raced down the sterile white hospital corridors, her feet pounding on the tiles, rubber soles of her shoes squeaking as she went. She couldn't believe it; how could this be happening?

(1984)

Gillian now laid quietly on Jim's chest, almost resigned to her fate. The pain was dull but fierce; her lungs burned from the inside out. She could have stood it if she knew it wasn't being caused by him. What had he done to her-what had he reduced her to? Breathing was such a chore now, she had to fight for every breath. She was becoming lightheaded from the lack of oxygen; it was as if everything was just fading away into black.

(2010)

Amy hurtled into the room, and there he was. Jim Keats was covering Gillian's face with a pillow, so intent that he didn't notice Amy looming behind him. "What the hell are you doing! Stop, stop right there or I'll have to use force!" Professional to the end, Amy warned Jim off. Spinning around in one fell swoop, Jim turned his cold, manic stare onto her. "I've called security," she lied. What was she going to say;_ I suspect that my best friend is being murdered by a man she asked me to put her in to a coma to catch? Oh and he's from 1984!_No, of course not.

Moving slowly towards her, he snarled and hissed in the most inhuman way. Amy backed up towards the door, but in her haste she'd accidentally backed herself into the corner of the room, stopped by an NHS wheeled hospital table behind her. Jim laughed cruelly; the way he looked at her chilled her to the bone. "St...stop right there," she warned, her voice weak with terror. She was never the brave one; that was Gillian. Jim reached out his hands and gripped onto her wind pipe; Amy coughed and gasped, struggling as she tried to get him to release his hold on her, but he was too strong. Amy was by no means a weak woman, but it was clear she wasn't going to defeat him by force alone. She fumbled behind her back, patting the table behind her. She just needed something, anything...and then, finally, there they were: the scissors that she had used to cut the bandage on Gillian's hand earlier. They were fairly small but still sharp, at least buying her enough time to get away. With all of her might, Amy let out a primal scream and sank the scissors into his neck.

(1984)

Suddenly, Gillian felt a massive weight had been lifted; the burning in her chest had stopped and it was like someone had opened a window in a smoky room. She could breathe. Gulping in air, she raised her head from Jim's chest and looked at his serene face, puzzled. She moved closer and was merely centimeters from his face when his chocolate brown eyes pinged open. He sat bolt upright, nearly sending her flying. Despite everything, she couldn't help but be a little relieved that he'd awakened. He looked around the room, trying to take in the surroundings. "Where...where am I?" For once, Jim Keats let his mask slip and he was clearly shaken; his cuffed hands went to his neck as if he were checking for injury. "I was in a hospital...," he spoke as if trying to remember. Her pleasure at seeing him awake and well was short-lived as she recalled the agonizing torture he had just put her through. She felt fury building up within her and she couldn't control the urge to launch herself at him with all her might. "How could you?" she yelled, pushing him backwards onto the floor. "**HOW COULD YOU? YOU BASTARD? I'M IN A F**KING COMA! I WAS DEFENSELESS, YOU SPINELESS, WRETCHED RAT!**" Gillian's fists pounded into him at random as he tried to block her raging assault as best he could; for someone so small, she could pack a punch. Amidst the onslaught, he reasoned definitively that he should never, ever underestimate this woman again. "Gillian!" Jim attempted to reason with her. "Gillian! I'm cuffed, for God's sake," he cried. Gillian paused, her lip quivering as the anger subsided slightly and hurt crept in from the pit of her stomach. He was right; she was assaulting a cuffed man, but that was nothing compared to what he had just tried to do to her. Sliding off of his knee, she settled by his side, satisfied that whilst he was still cuffed and dazed he could do her no real harm. "Don't you take the moral high ground, James Keats." Her voice was low and threatened to break at any moment. "You would have killed me in my hospital bed, you **SICK F**K.**" Gillian looked down, not being able to bear the sight of his face anymore. It seemed incredibly unjust to her that one so evil should be made so beautiful. "Gillian, you're taking this so personally; I was doing my job, just as you are," he replied. As absurd as that statement was, for the first time ever, Jim sounded genuine.

(2010)

Amy looked down at Jim, the blood pouring from his neck. She knew straight away she'd hit his main artery. She had not meant for that; she'd only meant to slow him down for a moment. He slumped to the floor and Amy tried to apply pressure to the wound to stem the bleeding. She did everything in her power to keep him alive, but within minutes he was gone. Amy sat beside him, her hands still coated with his spilled blood. She wept uncontrollably for what seemed like hours. What would she do now? She was a murderer; who was she to turn to? The one person she would have gone to was lying in a coma behind her. Washing her hands at the wash basin, she recalled a conversation she and Gillian had had weeks before.

"If anything goes wrong, and I mean _**wrong,**_" Gillian had said, "Call this number, and you'll get help."

Dialing the number, Amy had no idea who would greet her. " 'Ello, Gene Hunt," the voice bellowed down the line. "Hello, I'm a friend of Gillian Macmanus," she spoke, her voice cracking. "Well, bully for you, what do you want?" "It's Gillian, I think she may be in trouble; well, I think we might be in trouble."


	9. Chapter 9

(2010)

Amy sat on a bench outside the MI-5 lab, trembling in the cold. It was now 3 am; she'd locked Gillian's room door and made her way to the entrance to wait for Gene, who assured her that he would be right there. Her hands shook slightly as she took a drag of a cigarette; she hadn't smoked since she was 17, but now seemed like as good a time as any to take it back up.

Her eyes grew wide as a car hurtled round the corner of the street, tyres screeching as it went. Stopping right in front of her, a tall, rugged looking man clad in a long black woollen coat and pointed boots stepped out of the car. Taking one look at Amy's tear-streaked face, he put an arm around her. "You must be Amy; come on luv, show me where she is."

Leading Gene to Gillian's room, Amy confessed all. She could have never kept such a terrible secret to herself, she knew that. " I never meant to hurt him like this, Mr Hunt. I just had to protect us; you understand that, don't you?" Her eyes pleaded with him."Of course I do, luv, it was self-defence, you're in the business of savin' lives, not takin' 'em-anyone could see that," he replied comfortingly.

(1984)

Gillian was about to launch herself at Jim once again for that last crass and flippant remark about him 'only doing his job' when the phone rang._ It was 3 am, for Gods sake!, _she thought, _Who the hell is even up at this time?_ Jim's face was grave as she went to the phone, not once turning her back on him. The voice on the other end of the phone was deep and foreboding. "Yes. DCI James Keats, please." Gillian looked over to Jim, whose skin was now ashen with fear. That's a first, she mused. "No, why would he be; and, more importantly, why are you calling here at 3 am? I have to be up in the morning; now, what is this about?" She tried to sound as steady as she could, albeit very annoyed. "It is a criminal offence to lie to a police officer, Miss. **Where is Jim Keats.**" The voice was flat and stern. "I've already told you-I have no idea!" And with that, there was a click on the line and the phone went dead.

Jim stood up in front of her, hands still cuffed and a look of genuine shock on his face. "Why did you lie?" he quizzed, narrowing his eyes as if to try and fathom her motives. "Because you needed me to. They're not D&C, are they," she concluded.  
Jim looked at his feet and let out a breath; why would she help him? "I messed up, I didn't deliver Michael as I said I would. That's two in a row, they won't stand for that. I'm done."

(2010)

"He was right here a minute ago! There was blood, lots and lots of blood..." Amy pointed to the floor where Jim had lain and looking up at Gene who, for some reason, seemed very cool about the whole situation. "He was **HERE!** I swear!" she repeated, pointing at the floor and looking under the bed. Gene simply settled his gaze on Gillian, standing respectfully at the foot of her bed.

Amy raced around to Gillian's IV drip. "Oi! What are you doing?" Gene questioned in his authoritative tone. "I'm waking her up! It won't be instant; I have to reduce the amount of the drug gradually, but this has gone on long enough! I'm tired of her putting herself on the line like this." Amy looked back, not taking her hand off the drip. Gene raced over to her and gently pulled her hand away. "Amy. Luv, she's not meant to come back...she doesn't want to come back." Amy looked up at him confused and angry, her blue eyes fixed on his face. "What the hell are you on about? She's only 35 years old, for Christ's sake! She only did this for **you**!"

(1984)

Gillian looked up at Jim; the height difference was staggering at this close proximity. "What do they do when they get you?" Her voice was level, but angry nevertheless. Jim scoffed initially, but then looked upon her with sober eyes. "They process me; I have proved myself useless to them. I'll go down in the lift just like the others." His face contorted ever so slightly at the thought of it. Without a word, Gillian raced to the bedroom and brought out a large overnight bag. "Get your coat," she ordered, gesturing to the long trench coat hung by the door. "What?" Jim looked on in confusion, hands still firmly placed together. "**JUST GET YOUR F***ING COAT!**", she growled, filling the bag with clothes and personal documents. "Do you have a passport?" she enquired as she raced from room to room. "What? I..I...I don't understand..?" Jim asked again, even more dumbfounded than last time. "Christ on a **CRUTCH**, Jim! This isn't f***ing nursery school! **DO. YOU. HAVE. A. PASSPORT.**" She looked at him condescendingly as she dumped his coat over his cuffed hands. "Errr...yes..I think so.." he answered; Gillian then came unglued. "WELL, DO YOU OR NOT, YOU F***ING DOUCHE?" Jim was absolutely dumbfounded, watching her in action as she whirled around him. "Yes..YES! I do, I do...what is going on?" Grabbing her car keys, Gillian only replied, "Just get in the car. _You don't get to ask the questions anymore._"

They drove into the night, one hour passing into the next. Gillian hadn't said one word to Jim since they'd left her flat. "Gillian, I demand to know where we are going." Jim half-wondered if she was going to hand him over to D&C personally. Gillian laughed, looking at him sarkily. "You seriously have no place demanding anything, James. _Really?_" She stared coldly at the road. "Will you at least uncuff me?" he propositioned, lifting his wrists to show her. "**JUST SHUT THE F*** UP! JESUS CHRIST! **Are you going to be like this the whole way? Because I am just about over it." She ground her teeth. _Why was she helping this God-awful man? _Silence filled the car for a few more miles. "Seriously, Gillian, where are we going?" Jim turned to her once again, begging for some answers. "Oh, my days-you are just like Bart F***ing Simpson! Arewethereyet?Arewethereyet? We are** RUNNING**, Jim, okay?" Jim had gotten on her last nerve. She continued on with her rant. "I need some tunes, James, because, really, if I have to listen to your whiny-ass voice any more this trip, I'm going to wish that you _HAD_ killed me."

Gillian rummaged through the console, finding a Depeche Mode mixtape that was already in her car when she first came to this plane. Pressing 'play', she sat back on her laurels and smiled smugly as 'Strangelove' streamed through the speakers. "Hey! How about this song, yeah! Doesn't come out till 1987. Isn't that curious? Haaaa! _Gee, Gillian, where'd you get that kind of knowledge?_ **Isn't this FASCINATING!**" She threw back her head and screamed, rolling the windows down. "**WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! F*** YEAH! **And the best part is, Jim, you don't get to say s***!" Jim looked at her slack-jawed. _Oh, dear God...she's lost her bloody mind,_ he thought.

After several moments of just staring at her bizarrely, he finally gulped and managed a small "Where to?"

"The first freaking plane I can procure...and believe me, I've got connections." Taking her eyes off the road for the briefest of moments, she looked over to him, smiling brightly. He was still staring at her perplexed. "Gillian...we..we..we went past the airport _miles_ back, where are we really going?" Agitation, and, for the first time, panic was in his voice. "F***'s sake, Jim, where did they teach you to be a cop? For being one of the Devil's minions, you are one daft S.O.B." She laughed again, gripping the steering wheel tight. "The first place they will _LOOK _for you when they see that you are gone is _MANCHESTER AIRPORT, SON?_ DAMN!" Gillian shook her head condescendingly at him. "We need to get to Inverness before morning, before they miss you. I know someone who can charter us a private plane," she stated flatly, keeping her eyes on the road.

Jim sat beside her in silence for a few moments before he dared ask another question. "...and then what?" He swallowed hard. "We're going someplace where no one will ever find us." He didn't press her further, but the term _'we'_ hung in the air.  
Gillian seemed to calm down as they neared Inverness. Jim watched her as her mania subsided and a far-away expression took over. The mysterious cassette tape that happened to be in her console upon her arrival in 1984 Gillian hadn't bothered with until now. She was afraid of what it would contain; but now, she didn't care-she had nothing to lose.

She listened as each song played-much of it was from her own playlist in 2010, both old and new. There was some indie from Phoenix; some electro from Eric Prydz; some dance from Calvin Harris; and some post-punk from A Certain Ratio. Jim didn't even ask here where she'd gotten the music, much of it was well over his head-and, besides, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know. He then caught a flash of a golden St. Christopher's medal-a magnet on her glove compartment-and his stomach sank. _He now knew where he was going. He knew who-what-Gillian was._ Part of him was repelled to the core, the other excited; it finally dawned on him that this would be both his worst nightmare and the best day of his life.

Jim had never been more conflicted. He'd won the prize he'd coveted, but at a precious cost: he'd lost his soul to her whim. _How did this HAPPEN?,_ he wondered.

The chartered flight was awaiting them when they got to the remote Inverness runway strip.

Once more, Jim asked Gillian what was going to happen, but she silenced him with a kiss-the same kiss he'd tortured her with only hours earlier. As she did this, she finally unlocked his handcuffs. Jim's arms flew around her, pressing her close. After several seconds, Gillian pulled away from him, finally speaking sincerely. "We are on our way to an island north of Siberia, Russia. We'll be safe there, for a while at least. If you don't want that, then you'd better say now; but if what you said is true regarding your fate..." She paused, considering the depths of the deception he was capable of, before concluding, "...then I think this is perhaps your best, and only option." She looked at him, awaiting his response.

Jim stood there, completely gone. This was never the way his life was supposed to go. It was not the way he'd been promised. But then, flashing her a genuine smile, he quipped, "Russia…how very Rudolph Maté. You're never going to stop surprising me, are you?" Gillian gave him a coy smile in return, replying, "I certainly hope not." Jim stared towards the private plane that awaited them; of all the amazing and terrible things he had ever done, this was by far the most surreal moment of his life. His eyes fell upon Gillian, and, shooting her a jubilant smile, he tilted his head, saying, "Come on then, what are we waiting for?"

(2010)

Amy and Gene sat either side of Gillian's gurney. The room was quiet but for the beep of the machine that told them that somewhere Gillian was fit and well and probably making Jim Keats regret the day he was ever born.

"So, you're telling me I have to leave my best friend in this coma and keep her in a secret location because that is what she would want?" Amy looked incredulously at Gene, still struggling to comprehend all that he had told her.

"She's the only person for the job, Amy, I wouldn't have asked her otherwise...and you know, I think she's 'appy enough." Gene looked at Gillian and smiled ever so slightly. "How do you know that?" Amy grew upset again. "He was in here trying to kill her?" Gene reached out a hand to Amy, "And do you _really_ think she will ever let 'im forget it, luv? She's a smart arse, this one here; too smart for Jim Keats, that's for sure." Amy looked down at Gillian and closed her eyes, knowing Gene was right. "Amy, luv, I've not seen Jim Keats since November 1984. I've gone about my business since then, keeping the scum off the streets of this city all because our Gillian was the only one who could reign that bastard in. She likes a challenge, does Gillian, you know that!" Gene's crystal blue eyes were sincere, Amy didn't doubt him. She nodded knowingly. "Well, luv, lovely meeting you." He raised his wrist to check his watch."Oh, look! Pub o' clock!" Gene rose up off his chair and placed a kiss on Gillian's forehead. "But it's 4 am?" Amy stood, hands in the pockets of her lab coat. "I know, I'm extremely late; someone's waiting for me and she'll 'av my conkers on a spike, no doubt!" And with that, Gene Hunt raised a hand to say goodbye and made his way out.


End file.
